


The May Ward

by aegle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Experimental Style, F/M, Gen, Half-Blood Prince AU, Hallucinations, Interrogation, early writings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:37:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7497975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegle/pseuds/aegle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being interrogated by Death Eaters, Remus Lupin wakes up in St. Mungo's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The May Ward

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the remus_reads community on livejournal, **circa 2006** , following mithborien's prompt: "Remus gets tortured." This one is fairly experimental, so the format is rather interesting. I've cleaned it up a bit and made some minor changes*. Contains violence, implied torture, interrogation. 
> 
> *Original version beta-read by jadeddiva.

When he opens his eyes, gray. His throat convulses and he lets out a breath (laugh?), and it’s only then that he realizes: alive. The dead don’t need to exhale.

_I believe you’ve been extremely fortunate, given the circumstances._

Possibly, yes, he thinks. There is a dull sort of itching along one thigh, the kind he has grown to associate with injury and healing. The sweat seeping down his shoulders has made the bed sheets damp—too damp. For a moment he fears he’s urinated on himself, and the thought is enough to keep him still for several minutes. But the itching grows more noticeable, and he lifts his head, tired already of seeing only the ceiling overhead. The sheets are stifling and hot against his skin. 

Not urine, he sees. There is no tell-tale stain, just white sheets over knee caps and the bed rail at his feet. So. Sweat, then. 

 

_I see I haven’t the honor of being the first person in this chair today._

_The body’s reaction to fear. Not uncommon._

_Do you find?_

_With proper cooperation, the entire matter can be thankfully avoided._

 

They’d been a bizarre panel of interrogators, each wearing an expressionless mask, blackened where the eyes should have been. They'd sat in a neat row, cheerfully business-like. A professional sort of torture, this had been. Another item on an agenda, perhaps with a box to one side to be ticked off efficiently by quill-stroke. He’d been given a wooden chair (not unlike those assigned to each narrow and unoccupied hospital bed of the St. Mungo’s ward), and they’d left him unbound—a state curiously better than present. It had been warm outside. That he remembered. It had been sunny when they'd taken him. 

 

His wrists are secured snugly to the bed rails. They've been rubbed raw. 

 

_You’ve been busy, Mr. Lupin._

_I try to stay active._

 

Four behind the long desk. One had been a woman with surprisingly delicate hands, manicured and milk-white. He'd been fairly sure the most conversational among them had been Antonin Dolohov, unless the Death Eaters included in their ranks a surplus of broad-shouldered Russians. He'd recognized the accent, dulled from decades spent on English soil, but present, nonetheless. Not a friendly lot, and Dolohov had appeared to be in control of the whole affair, but still, he'd thought, they'd not executed him. 

 

_You persuaded several of Fenrir Greyback’s followers to act as informants for the Order of the Phoenix, Mr. Lupin. Not an easy task. Frankly, I’m astonished that they managed to go undetected for as long as they did._

The female Death Eater had leaned forward and cut him off, then, and Dolohov had relented, folding his hands neatly on the tabletop.

_You’re familiar with a Mr. Leonard Gaftner from Manchester? The one you were waiting on when you were apprehended?_

_An earlier occupant, I take it._

_Mr. Gaftner was extremely helpful before he was terminated. Not everyone is trustworthy, Mr. Lupin. And even those who are can be persuaded otherwise._

_And you’re more than willing to help out._

_If it comes to that, yes._

 

There’s a muted green curtain running the length of his bed rail, and he can make out the boxy shape of beds and tables spaced cleanly (systematically) in the empty ward. He thinks he might vomit, which is unfortunate, as there’s no convenient spot to do so, and the itch has grown more persistent. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows. If he does vomit, it will have to be on the floor, although the idea of twisting around in the scant hospital gown is less than appealing, and it’s not going to do him any favors with the staff should they come in and find him—a half-naked man cuffed to the bed and retching onto their clean and polished tile. 

 

_Gaftner gave us two names, although we suspect there are more involved. You will provide these names to us._

_And you don’t question their legitimacy? Put someone in enough pain and they’ll feed you anything they think you’ll be interested in hearing._

_Fortunately, we have you to reinforce his claims._

_Only if you ask very nicely._

 

When he’d climbed back into the chair, muscles jerking, blood running from one nostril—Crucio, apparently, had been a favorite—they had decided to try a different line of questioning, drilling him about the Order and growing progressively more frustrated. The woman's polished nails had been digging into the palms of her hands. He, on the other hand, had begun to realize the steadily decreasing chances of getting out of the predicament alive, and the whole situation had become maddeningly comic. 

 

Quick footsteps in the hall, and then: “They said they’d take those off.”

He looks up as Tonks leans over him, and his sense are overrun: her soap, black currant oil, sweat, her hair brushing against his face. She releases his arms, but the touch is efficient, as clinical as a that of a nurse. No matter, he thinks, because he’s going to scratch the ever-living fuck out of his thigh as soon as his hands can reach it. 

“You were violent. They couldn’t sedate you.” Her hair is wild and long, twisting. She folds her arms across her chest, glances around, ignores the chair next to his bed. He doesn’t blame her. 

 

_And Nymphadora Tonks. You associate with her._

_We’ve not spoken in some time._

_I have it on good authority that you’d been surprisingly close._

He’d smiled, half-delirious, and it had felt awkward on his face.

_Severus isn’t always a reliable source of information._

_This came from a closer source, actually._

_Enough_ , the woman had said. _There are other means of compliance, Mr. Lupin, and far less voluntary._

 

“There’s no wound,” he says, and Tonks frowns, smoothing the front of her robe, distracted. “Why isn’t there a...there should be a cut here."

“Try to calm down.”

“It’s been driving me mad—“

 

_It’s possible there may be adverse effects, of course, with formulas like these. You never know, for instance, if the mind can truly handle it._

He'd fought them, then, and one had started chuckling. 

_Do stop squirming._

There had been a heat, after, like fire licking his skin. He'd watched as pale hands had dragged a blade across his thigh and poured something oily onto the cut, not daring to touch him, not daring to sully their exposed skin with blood. He'd heard himself screaming, and it had sounded very far away. 

 

Remus looks to Tonks, who regards him with a sad, detached gaze.

“I don’t understand," he says, looking from his skin to her and back again. "There ought to be a mark. There ought to be something." 

She shushes him, taking a vial from her pocket. “This will help.”

“Dora."

“Mr. Lupin, please cooperate. It’s for your own good.” 

Her face contorts, shifts, becomes unfamiliar. She places the vial to his lips. He stares, wanting to bat her hand away, wanting her to change her eyes back to soft brown instead of this unforgiving gray. There’s too much gray in this room—above and in front of him, and he’s swallowing something that’s warm and familiar. She watches him, appeased. 

“What's happening? What is that?" 

“To calm you,” the woman tells him.

“Where is she?” 

“You know the answer to that.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Mr. Lupin.” She’s impatient, as though dealing with an unruly child. He feels like crying, and it threatens to come out as laughter. Or a moan. His leg itches again.

“Tell me, please.” 

“How many times must we go through this?"

“Please,” he says, and his eyelids grow heavy. The world rolls. 

“You need to rest.” 

“I need to talk to her. Please. You don’t understand.” He's mumbling now, and he feels an indifferent pat on his arm. 

“Try to relax, Mr. Lupin.” 

 

When he opens his eyes, _gray_ , and he cannot remember being more terrified in his life, not even as a small child with the dread of monsters and beasts, lurking, waiting to swallow him. His mouth feels too dry—it’s all starched cotton here, endless clinical white sheets. And there are voices in the corridor, distorted. It’s a strain to understand them, but he hears in tones and clips, and hers is warning and dangerous. 

"I don't care about your superiors.” 

_(I don’t particularly enjoy warfare, Mr. Lupin, but such are the times. I recognize my superiors as you’ve undoubtedly recognized yours. You'll tell us now? Everything?)_

“—only just had his medication," comes the reply. 

He's staggering, exposed in the makeshift gown, expecting it to flap with every step or simply fall off, heightening his indignant nakedness. He feels very old and very young, and the floor is tilting oddly at him, rather like the collapsible books he’d been entertained by in his youth. He sees her face, her lilac-colored hair, and then nothing. 

 

Her hands are on his face, cool and lovely, her palm on his forehead, and he can’t swallow—he thinks he might be weeping. He’s not even sure her skin against his is real. He smells black currant when he breathes, and her index finger is just above his right ear. She smooths back his hair, saying, "Remus."

“I don’t want to be here," he tells her.

“I'm taking you away." 

“Please help me, Dora. Please stay with me.”

And she turns her head and speaks to someone out of his range of view, firm and authoritative. It’s followed by the sound of soft shoes against tiling. 

“I will,” she shushes him. “You’re fine.” 

“I’m losing my mind.” 

“You’ve been hallucinating."

“Please don’t go.” 

“Where do you think you are?" She looks at him, concentrating, peering into his eyes. "Mr. Lupin, where do you think you are?" 

He sits up, and immediately regrets it. He's clutching at his hair, and his body is trembling. He reaches for the woman's wrist, avoiding her eyes, avoiding the face that looks so like Nymphadora Tonks, and clutches it tightly. “Who brought me here?” 

_Leave him there. No, leave him. He's no use to us like this._

_And the Auror?_

_Dispose of the body. Whatever way is fastest. The others can't be far behind._

 

“Mr. Lupin?" Another voice, this time male. "You were hallucinating again.” 

Remus looks up at Arthur Weasley, who is almost certainly not Arthur Weasley, and who moves around the edge of his bed, carrying a clipboard. He’s wearing medical robes. He places a hand on Remus’ shoulder, saying in low tones: “Pull yourself together, Lupin. You know she’s gone.” 

Arthur holds out a vial.

“You need to rest now.”


End file.
